


Uticensis

by imperiatrix



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Established Relationship, Horatio does his Latin homework, M/M, Pre-Canon, Wittenberg Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7884892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperiatrix/pseuds/imperiatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he walked to the inn, he wondered if he should like to be prince. He imagined power and easy wealth, imagined awe and simple love. He imagined Plutarch’s heroes and wondered at the will to die, if it resided in him too, and what would call it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uticensis

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a prompt on tumblr no less than two years ago.

In December, the west wing of the long dorm hall collapsed beneath two feet of snow. Two dozen boys were shoved out of their closet sized rooms, scrambling through tight halls before the walls gave in too. One student went home, uninjured but shaken, while the rest sought boarding in the two inns on market square. Horatio, after salvaging what little he owned for the wood and water that remained of the room–he dared not think of the joachimsthalers handed over months ago for that tiny sliver of space, now lost–managed to procure the bottom bunk nearest to the exterior wall in a barrack room which he shared with three other students: a lesser Ascanian lordling with an equally lesser Jagiellonian bride whom he had never met, but of whom he owned one small oil portrait which he would pull from his jerkin and display when given the chance; the perpetually freezing son of a wealthy Viennese spice merchant whose musical vocabulary was matched only by his Protestant zeal; and a heavily accented boy of disputed origins who would insist to Horatio that he was intimate with a number of important Prussians who “would be hearing about the dorms,” and, presumably, do something about it.

Horatio had never been particularly convinced by these assertions, but as December turned to January to February and repairs remained stagnant, he tuned them out entirely. There would be no significant Prussians, no exotic silk traders, not even the third daughter of a Lithuanian duke. However long he spent, he would spend. He didn’t plan to rebuilt the dorm himself, anyway.

From the tiny room at the inn, Horatio could see the apsis of the Schlosskirche in between the wooden slats that boarded what had been a window during some former summer. Soft powders of snows covered the russet roof tiles, sliding down when the village boys pelted the drifts with stones. He watched as religious men filed in and out of the doors on Sundays while he stayed on his bed, knees tucked half up to his chin as he worked on his translations.

His formal education at the village school had given him excellent German, good Danish and prepared him for a little bit of music and a little bit of Greek, but had done far more in the way of superstition and farming. The rest of his learning came from a Protestant refugee who had been hiding out in Leisenberg. The man knew politics, philosophy, and more theology than Horatio would ever care for, but not a precious ounce of Latin. Horatio had never learned any himself beyond scriptures, and he was painfully aware of it. He would work for hours, squinting into the rapidly fading light that filtered through the slats to work out Cicero’s tricolon crescens and Caesar’s chiamus. He would mutter under his breath  _simul in arido constituerunt suis omnibus consecutis_  and try to feel it out on his tongue, see if the ease that came to lordlings could come to him, or if it was something that must be learned at the same time as the lute and the allemande.

Horatio’s bed shook as the lovestruck lordling sleeping above him kicked firmly at the joining post. “Oy, you,” he spat, “keep silent. Stop your mumbling.” Horatio heaved a silent sigh, folding the pages of the book around his finger and lowering it the floor below his bed. He tried to make sense of Caesar in his head. Ambiorix wanted something, or didn’t want something, or couldn’t do something. The waves were vast and tore the ships apart. The war seemed lost. And Caesar knew-–what did he know?

That night, Horatio dreamt of Rome.

When he awoke the following morning, it was still dark. He attempted to sleep again, but a draft was blowing in through the slats and freezing the skin of his ear. He rolled out of bed, shivering as he dressed. He put his books into his satchel and slipped on quiet feet from the room, out of the inn, and onto the icy cobbles of the market square. He moved slowly over the packed snow, pausing occasionally to readjust his cloak or hitch his bag higher on his shoulder. As he passed the east dorms, he found himself checking to see if Hamlet’s dorm window was illuminated, and firmly denying the rise in his heart when he saw that it was.

He made his cautious way to the dorms and tapped his knuckles on the wooden shudders of Hamlet’s room, grateful as always that the best rooms were on the first floor and that Hamlet—of course—had managed to get one of them. 

He heard a groan from the interior before the shudders swung outward. Hamlet had a heavy blanket thrown around his shoulders and a cap placed haphazardly over his head. He blinked several times. “I was asleep.”

“You had a candle lit.” Horatio said. “And good morning.”

“I lit it. Then I fell back to sleep. And good morning.” Hamlet placed both hands on the window frame, craning his neck to peck Horatio on the tip of his cold nose.

“My lord,” Horatio whispered, jerking his head back. “We could be seen.”

“No one is awake at this hour.” He cocked his head to the side, smiling to himself. “No one but us.” He raised an eyebrow. “So what ought we to do?”

“I am going to the library,” Horatio said.

Hamlet’s smile turned into a brief laugh. “Of course you are.”

“Would you like to join me?” Horatio offered.

“I’d rather you come in here and work while I sleep a while longer. And then we can go to the library. I have a book I need.” Hamlet said, leaning back into his room.

“How many books do you have out now?”

Hamlet glanced back into his room, mouthing a few numbers before turning back to the open window. “Several.”

“And ought you to return some of those before taking out another?”

“I ought,” Hamlet shrugged, “but I shan’t. Now come inside. I’ll put us on a fire. I’m getting cold.”

“When the Danes’ blood turns icy, it truly is time to move indoors.” Horatio handed Hamlet his satchel and swung his leg over the window ledge, accepting Hamlet’s helping hand to swing the other over and slid down onto the stone floor. Hamlet clicked his tongue at the tracked snow, but ignored it in favor of slamming the shudders closed.

“Denmark is not half so cold as you imagine. Come summertime, it is almost warm.” Hamlet said. He shed the blanket in a puddle on the ground, shivering slightly in his braies as he tossed wood into the small fireplace.

“Why do you insist on wearing those?” Horatio asked. “They’re quite below your station.”

“Would you prefer I parade myself around in the nude?”

“Often, yes,” Horatio shrugged. “Your flint is over here.” He said, tossing the small stone to Hamlet.

“Much thanks for the latter, significantly more thanks for the former.” Hamlet replied, striking the flint and setting the logs to flame. Horatio sighed, taking his own cloak off and hanging it from the tall poster of Hamlet’s bed. He unlaced his boots and carried them to the doormat near to the fire. Hamlet kept his face to the flame a moment longer. Horatio stepped behind him, looping his arms around Hamlet’s bare waist.

“Cold!” Hamlet shrieked, jumping. Horatio laughed, holding tighter and stepping back to fall against the bed. Hamlet pulled at his wrists, wriggling onto his side. “I swear, Horatio, there is ice still on your clothes.”

“And now on you as well.”

Horatio released Hamlet, who bounded across the room, brushing chips of hardened snow from his hair and arms. He held back a laugh to glare at Horatio across the room.

“Betrayed,” Hamlet said. “A most cruel happening.”

Horatio allowed himself to laugh. “Get dressed, else we shall never make it to the library.”

“Why did you need to make your way there so early in any case?”

“I needed a quiet place to do my Latin. It is still not coming easy to me.”

Hamlet nodded. “I have the thing.” He began to buzz around the room as if set off by a spring, upheaving piles of books and tossing aside his strewn garments before holding up one of his pilfered library books like a trophy of war. “Plutarch.” He passed the book over to Horatio, smiling blindingly and awaiting a reaction.

“Thank you,” Horatio said, not quite sure what he has been given. “ _Vitae illustrium virorum_? _Parellel Lives_?”

“Indeed,” Hamlet said, sitting down on the bed next to Horatio, apparently no longer so seriously perturbed by the coldness of his clothing and skin. He opened the book on Horatio’s lap. “You struggle with your Latin because the Latin struggles with you. It does not grasp you. Your life has little of war, but it has much of this,” Hamlet declared proudly, flipping through the delicate pages to show Horatio the colorful illuminations.

“And what is this?”

“Stories, Horatio,” Hamlet said, “stories of character, philosophy. Stories of importance. This is what you needed.”

“Thank you,” Horatio said again.

“And now that you have it,” Hamlet said, closing the book and tossing it on top of Horatio’s satchel at the foot of the window, “you need not go to the library.”

“What of your book?” Horatio asked.

Hamlet shrugged, placing a hand on Horatio’s thigh. It felt warm through his clothes. “It will be there after class, will it not?”

Horatio swallowed, meeting Hamlet’s eyes. “I suppose it will.”

Hamlet broke into a grin. “Let us get you out of these wet clothes, then?” Horatio nodded enthusiastically.

After class, Horatio escorted Hamlet to the library where he picked up some obscure text by some obscure Italian and they found a small alcove in which to read. Hamlet removed his boots and put his feet up in Horatio’s lap, the two of them silent and at ease. Horatio struggled through the Plutarch’s prose, unsure of exactly what it was that Hamlet had hoped would come to him. They read until dark. Hamlet yawns, moving his feet from Horatio’s lap.

“Should I walk you to your lodgings?”

“There is no need.” Horatio replied.

“I would like to.”

“I would like you to as well. But there is no need.”

“There need not be a need,” Hamlet shrugged, putting his new book into his bag and relacing his boots. “The invitation to take up my quarters is still open.”

“I know,” Horatio said.

“And yet you refuse it. You refuse me.” Hamlet frowned at that, his mood rapidly souring. Horatio glanced around, and, satisfied that they are alone, kisses Hamlet gently.

“Do not conflate the two, I beg, my lord. I refuse only the offer, but never you, and even what I do refuse I do on the grounds of foolish pride. It is, alas, the only thing in my possession not covered in a layer of ice as of late.”

Hamlet’s bad mood is cured in part, allowing himself a smile. “You are your greatest and only critic, Horatio.”

“I hope so,” Horatio replied, standing up and following Hamlet out of the library. They walk quietly to the inn, Hamlet pausing occasionally to appreciate some scene of startling beauty. Horatio contents himself with watching the easy smile on Hamlet’s face and the comfortable weight of Plutarch’s _Vitae_.

When they reach the front of the inn, Hamlet gives Horatio a meaningful look. Horatio returns the look with an open smile, gentle and open. “Are you enjoying the book?” Hamlet asks.

“I appreciate the gift,” Horatio said.

Hamlet frowned again, thoughtful. “Let me suggest, if you will, that you read the Cato. I rather think you would like him.”

“Should I not read them in order?” Horatio countered.

Hamlet made a face, the exact meaning of which Horatio could not discern. “Abide, Horatio. Abide me in this. And know that there is yet room in my bed for you.“ 

Hamlet clapped him on the shoulder and turned away. “Goodnight,” Horatio called after his retreating his back. “I shall see you in the morning.”

“Indeed you shall,” Hamlet called back across the square, “and goodnight to you as well.”

Horatio bounded up the stairs to his room. His smile refused to slide even as he was told at length what the Jaegerndorf Hohenzollern’s would surely do as soon as they heard that one of their dear friends had been confined to a closet of space with two boys and a simple commoner. Horatio ignored him, flipping until he found Cato. He began to read and stopped only when the merchant’s son pinched out his candle. As soon as the room was filled with three sets of snores, he lit it again and read until he slept. He did not dream at all that night, or at least did not remember.

He dressed quickly the next morning as every morning, baring himself in single inches to the cold before throwing on the next article. He left for the library to study before classes. The studying fell through to reading more of Plutarch. He read even as he walked to class.

Hamlet sat down next to him, so close to the bell that he could almost be late.

“How do you fare?” Horatio asked, moving over on the bench to make room.

“Well, and you?”

“I am enjoying the book, I think,” Horatio said.

Hamlet smiled and took out his books. He looked forward to the professor as he lectured. Horatio found his eyes drifting to Hamlet’s hands as he scrawled notes across the thick pages of his books. He remembered having asked Hamlet once if he regretted being prince. Horatio cannot recall the reply. He wondered if the answer would be the same if he asked again, how he would ever know.

Horatio left class quickly after the lesson was over, tossing his books back into his satchel. As he walked to the inn, he wondered if he should like to be prince. He imagined power and easy wealth, imagined awe and simple love. He imagined Plutarch’s heroes and wondered at the will to die, if it resided in him too, and what would call it out.

He dreamt again that night and saw Cato sitting in the throne of Damocles, the sword swinging above his head, rocking with the moving Earth.

Horatio feared that he would not wake.

The winter days had been shortening, and the cold snap broke on a sunny Tuesday in March. Horatio dressed in haste out of habit and left the inn at two steps short of a jog. After reaching the market square, he found himself standing and staring at the Schlosskirche, unsure of where to go. He held Hamlet’s Plutarch between two freezing hands, clasped close. His feet directed him through the market, watching the muggy sky go orange and purple and stunning bloody crimson until his boots were soaked through and the town had begun to breathe its own life.

He arrived at Hamlet’s window, not recalling having walked there. He knocked again on the shudders. This time, Hamlet was nearly fully dressed.

“Good morning, Horatio,“ Hamlet said. "You need not worry today. I shan’t be late for class again.”

Horatio shook his head. “It isn’t about your tardiness.”

Hamlet chuckled. “You would never know that a thing in the world is unrelated to that matter. My mother sent me a letter about it. I plan to tell her that you will keep me good and straight, though we both know that to be a lie.”

Horatio smiled briefly. “I finished the Cato.“

Hamlet allowed himself to be cautiously pleased. “In with you,” he said firmly, making way for Horatio to clamber inside. There was already a fire going and Horatio removed his outerwear as Hamlet stoked the fire.

“So you liked the book, I take it?” Hamlet asked.

“Too much, I fear.” Horatio replied. Hamlet quirked an eyebrow. “I grew,” he bit down on his lip, thinking, “attached. Emotional. Quite unlike myself.” Hamlet gave him a questioning look, but did not speak. "Cato’s death affected me.”

“It is gruesome,” Hamlet conceded.

Horatio shook his head. “Gruesome to the conscience.”

“Have I turned you against Caesar? I hope not against all monarchy, for that should put the most unfortunate strain between us.” Hamlet joked. Horatio smiled politely, but did not laugh. Hamlet crossed the room and sat down next to Horatio on the bed, placing a hand on his thigh. It was still warm, but differently so. Horatio covered it with his own.

“Is it not rational to feel when rationality is beaten down?” Hamlet asked. “It is those who tell the story in mourning that make the life eternal. Remember Ennius. He said, I believe, that he will live as long as his name is said. Can anyone be truly dead if their story is told?”

“Yes.”

“Good point, Horatio,” Hamlet snorted. Horatio jabbed Hamlet in the ribs. "A strong argument. Undeniable, if only because you offer nothing to deny.“

“I do not know what to think of it,” Horatio admitted, leaning onto Hamlet’s shoulder. “He would have died anyway, be long dead by now, but I feel as if I have been cheated by his death, although I did not know him. I should have liked to have known him.” Horatio sighed, turning his nose against Hamlet’s neck and moving closer. “I feel as if I did.”

Hamlet slung an arm around his shoulder, rubbing absently on his opposite shoulder. “He was a good man. But he died a heroes death. He died fighting, as he lived.”

“No man dies as he lived,” Horatio said softly. “Great men live in surety. They know what they must do because their conscious dictates it to be so. No man may so approach death. The only honest words that we living may speak of it is that it is unknown.” Hamlet nodded silently, adjusting his body to hoist his legs over Horatio’s and let the other man rest fully against his chest. “I worry for him,” Horatio laughs at himself. “Dante says he rules in Purgatory. Let us hope that it is true.”

“Perhaps he will have mercy on me.” Hamlet offered, earning another jab from Horatio’s elbow. “I should not have given you the book. I apologize.”

“I had already known that Cato died. I had not known how he lived. Besides, had you not given it to me, Cato still would have died. A lack of knowing does not equate of lack of being. Furthermore, there is good reason to hope that my marks will likely improve in Latin.” Hamlet’s mouth quirked into a smile. “What?”

“Nothing of import, I assure you,” Hamlet said, smoothing Horatio’s curls against his neck.

“We have class come noon,” Horatio said absently, picking at the fibers of his hose. “You should not be late again.”

“We have time,” Hamlet promised.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here http://imperiatrix.tumblr.com/post/68103023460/hamlethoratio-horatio-getting-melancholy-about


End file.
